My Boy
by discocompacto
Summary: F.P. rushes Jughead to the hospital after his encounter with Penny and the Ghoulies. Fred talks some sense into him when he tries to go and single-handedly avenge his son.
1. Chapter 1

**I've just finished watching Episode 02x21 of Riverdale and this little drabble came to mind. Hope you like it!**

—

"HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!"

Everyone at the hospital, staff and patients alike, made way for the desperate man who left a trail of his son's blood as he rushed across the emergency room. When the nurses came at last to his assistance, he was almost reluctant to let go of the young man he carried in his arms.

"I'm right here, Jug," F.P. promised as he clutched the boy's unresponsive hand between both his own. "I'm right here, alright?"

The stretcher rushed away and with it the King Serpent, clutching onto Jughead's hand for dear life as though fearing he would never get a chance to hold onto it again if he ever let go.

"Sir, you need to wait out here."

"The hell I do, that's my _son_!"

"Sir, we can't allow you back there—"

More nurses came to their colleague's assistance, holding onto the man's arms in an attempt to release their patient from his vehement grasp. However, the harder they tried to restrain him, the more violently he would try and fight them off of him, making sure (without being entirely sure as to why that was of the outmost importance) he never let go of Jughead's hand.

A sensible hand landed on his shoulder; it was weight all too familiar to F.P. although he hadn't felt it in quite some time.

"F.P., you gotta let him go, you gotta let 'em do their job," whispered Fred Andrews with a patience that made the Serpent all the more furious, especially because he knew he was right, which was why he refused to look anyone in the eye when he finally loosened his grip and allowed the stretcher to be rushed through the doors leading out of the waiting room.

Desperation clutched at his very core; F.P. felt as if he was being choked from the lungs by an invisible, unbearable force. All he could hear was Jughead's heartbeat, which had been echoing inside his brain since the moment he had pressed an ear to his chest to make sure he was still alive, and he closed his eyes, praying to a deity he had long abandoned that it wouldn't stop.

"Look what they did to him, Freddie," he muttered, eyes fixated through the glass holes on the door and on the face he couldn't recognize from the blood dyeing every inch of it. "Look what they did to my boy..." He exhaled the last word, having all but run out of air as the clutch in his chest tightened.

His curled his hand into a quivering fist and brought it up to his lips as he tried to remember if there had ever been a time in which he had been subdued to such a level of pain. Fred's hand had not released his shoulder.

"Look what they did to my boy," he repeated in a broken whisper, suddenly recalling every time he had stared into that man's impertinent, condescending, intrusive eyes after he had gotten to his nerves for the zillionth time and forgotten that despite how much too mature for his age he was, in the end, that's all he was: a boy. _**His**_ boy.

Jughead's entire life came flashing before his eyes. From the moment he had first wrapped his hand around his finger and past the one when it had —having still been too small for F.P.'s grasp— slid out of his own and disappeared into the crowd.

That day, F.P. remembered, he had experienced the exact same clutch in the chest, grabbing onto his hair as he turned on his heels time and time again in search for the child, wondering how he could ever be so _stupid_ as to allow him to let go of his hand, how he could ever believe that such a hangover as the one he was experiencing wouldn't cloud his ability to look after him even for one afternoon. He remembered, also, whispering those exact same words ("my boy") over and over again after having found him at last as he sighed in relief, cradling the back of his raven head which at the time fit into the palm of his hand.

"I want 'em dead, Fred." By then, he had already reached into his pocket to retrieve his knife. "I want each and every one of those sons of bitches to pay for what they did, I'll cut 'em up one by one!"

Thankfully, Archie had made it through the Emergency Room's main entrance right on time to help his father restrain the gang leader, keeping him from making the worst mistake his rage could have possibly concocted.

"F.P., stop!"

"Don't screw with me, Fred, if _that_ was your boy in there—!"

"Then _you_ would be the one talking some sense into _me_!"

The struggling came to a halt, but both Andrewses kept a hold onto the man's leather jacket just in case.

"I don't wanna be the bearer of bad news, F.P.," Fred went on as he shook his head. "I'm not gonna be the one to look that boy in the eye and tell 'im his father didn't make it back from a fight he knew he could not win. I couldn't live with myself, Jughead couldn't live with himself. And right now, that is not what he needs, he needs his _dad_. He needs you to be the first person he sees when he wakes up." He drew his attention to his breath. "And you need to be sober when he does."

F.P. was still visibly furious; his eyes were bloodshot, his face still flushed and his breathing heavier than normal. However, Fred had known him long enough to be able to tell when the message had hit home. He released him at last and Archie, trusting his father's instinct, followed.

"Mr. Jones, Jug's gonna be okay." He knew it wasn't much too reassuring, but at the same time he couldn't stand back and provide no support at all. "He's the toughest guy I know, alright? He can pull through this, I know he can."

"He's like his old man," Fred added with the faint hint of a supportive smile he could barely managed to pull off because, deep down, his heart had also shattered at the sight of Jughead's seemingly lifeless body. "Won't go anywhere if they're kicking him out the door, not if _he's_ got a say in it."

 _Please, let his heart keep beating_ , F.P. thought to himself as he came to his sense at last, enraged and altogether devastated but with his priorities sorted now that Fred had helped sort out his judgement, _Please, let it keep beating_. The sound echoing in his ears was deafening but at the same time reassuring. He ran his hands through his hair, paying no mind to the fact they were still stained with the teenager's by then dried up blood.

"Mr. Jones?"

Having been blinded by wrath a minute before with revenge as the sole thought crossing his mind, the Serpent had failed to see who else had come through those doors together with Archie while Fred tried to hold him back. Even though he hadn't turned around to face her just yet, he knew such an angelic voice could only belong to one person.

He held his arm out to Betty, because while he had a lot of absence to make up for, he knew Jughead well enough to know that her piece of mind would be his son's number one priority, that he would want her comforted and reassured that everything would be okay, even if he was not around to ensure it himself. He knew all too well he had inherited the Jones' undying devotion to blondes belonging to that family in particular and he knew what he would want his own old man to do if they were teenagers again in the shoes of their children.

"It's alright, kid," he reassured the young lady as she stepped into his embrace, allowing him to wrap his arm around her shoulders. "He's gonna be alright, you'll see..."


	2. Chapter 2

**Originally, I planned the former chapter to be just a loose drabble but people have made such wonderful comments about it, I've decided to post a continuation. I'm not sure if this will turn into an actual fic but I'm hoping it'll help to have another Riverdale-related idea hit me some time soon. Thank you for the reviews, hope you like this second part!**

—

It was less difficult to do this while F.P. was still facing the other way, looking out the window with a forearm resting on the frame as he stared onto nothing. It was only less difficult but in no way was it any easier. Fred had always cared about Jughead and would always regard him as if he were a child of his own, even if at times he had to make the tough decision of keeping the Jones' at bay when it came to the rest of his family's well-being. With the beeping of the monitor displaying his heart rate and the slow puffs of the respirator as it pumped air into the unconscious boy's lungs as sole company, Fred laid a gentle hand on top of his head. Despite his occasional outbursts of rage, he had to admit F.P. was handling the situation better than he imagined he himself would had that been Archie lying motionless on that stretcher, a thought he could hardly stomach to contemplate.

"I'm heading home, F.P.," he announced to the King Serpent, who had been practically mute since his son had been brought up to that room. "I'm gonna... check on Archie, take care of a couple of things at work and I'll be back in a couple of hours, alright?"

Just as expected, he received no response. And so, he patted his friend of the shoulder and left the room, closing the door behind him. Only then did F.P. dare to turn to face Jughead, having foreshadowed how torturous it would be to stand the sight of him when he did.

He practically fell back on the chair by his bed, running a hand down his face as he tilted his head back. The affliction was endless; he couldn't sleep, he couldn't eat, he refused to leave Jughead's bedside except when the nurses insisted he did while they went through their morning and evening check-up... and to make matters worse, when he had telephoned Toledo to let the mother of his children know what had happened, Jellybean had been the one to pick up the phone.

Since then, that conversation had been swirling in his mind, repeating itself in his head like a broken record over and over, stifling the steady beating of the machine monitoring Jug's heartbeat. He remembered telling the boy's mother all about how he had found him just as clearly as he remembered that night.

 _"Jughead!"_

 _He could have sworn he could hear his voice echoing in those woods, his heavy breath condensing into a faint cloud of white coming from his lips each time he exhaled. His blade glimmered in his hand but it quivered as did the rest of him, turning from one side to the other in desperate search of a hint to his son's whereabouts._

 _"JUGHEAD!"_

 _He cried out his name at the top of his lungs over and over whenever he was not kicking a branch or a bunch of leaves out of his way and cursing at Penny and the Ghoulies between gritted teeth, promising them unimaginable,_ _ **unspeakable**_ _amounts of pain if there should happen to be as much as a_ _ **scratch**_ _on the boy._

 _"No..."_

 _He could feel his body be drained of a soul and have it falling to his feet. For a moment, he thought he might actually collapse and fall to his knees, but thankfully, a jolt of adrenaline came rushing through his veins, propelling him forward and towards the beaten heap he had recognized as his son from a distance._

 _"No, no, no, no..." he kept whispering as he turned the young man's face to him, patting him repeatedly on the cheek in an attempt to return him to consciousness. "Jug? Jug, come on, talk to me... Talk to me, boy, come on..."_

 _He pressed an ear to his chest and felt as though a blade was piercing his own._

 _"No, no, no, no... Come on!" he muttered through his teeth as he pressed down on the teenager's thorax with the heel of his hand repeatedly to a steady rhythm._

 _He pressed his ear to his chest; nothing. He repeated the process three times until, finally, Jughead gave a sharp, breathless gasp. This time, F.P. heard a heartbeat. He released his breath, which he had unconsciously been withholding for longer than he'd realized, hugging the boy's head to his own chest._

 _"I got you." He may have failed to do so before, countless times, more times that he was prepared to admit, but he had him now. "You brave, crazy son of a bitch, why can't you just take after your mom instead, huh?" he murmured as he pressed a kiss to his son's forehead, still infuriated with him for having even_ _ **considered**_ _sacrificing himself to Penny and her minions, as if those psychopaths who had ever honored an agreement in their miserable lives would start doing so now._

He heard Jughead gasp again. He had dozed off.

"Jug? ... Nurse! NURSE!"

The nurses must have been taken notice of their patient's heartbeat suddenly going off the charts because not a moment later, three of them came rushing through the door. F.P. was asked to leave the room and this time, with no Fred Andrews around to hold him back, he kicked the nearest wall over and over until he had gotten it out of his system and brought his hands up to his face, his back sliding down said wall until he was seated on the floor.

The beeping of the machine stopped. The Serpent started counting; if by the time he got to 'five', there was still no sign of his son's heartbeat, he would be kicking that door down. The beeping resumed at 'four'.

"Mr. Jones?"

F.P. jumped to his feet and approached the nurse. They had removed the respirator.

"What? What is that, what does that mean?"

"It means he's breathing by his own means now. It means he should be waking up soon."

For the past 72 hours, every update —if he could even call them that seeing as they updated nothing at all— had been exactly the same. Each and every time a doctor had approached the patient's father it was only to let him know there was nothing that could be done except wait, as though expecting a sixteen-year-old that had been mercilessly beaten and had been barely alive when brought into the hospital to be responsible for his own recovery when that should have been that _damn_ hospital staff's job in the first place. Had not there been someone there every time to talk some sense into him, F.P. would have been dragged back to prison with multiple charges of assault by then. This change of news had finally re-placed his soul within his body.

"Scared the hell out of me for a minute there, boy," he whispered once he had finally been let back into the room and the nurses had cleared away. Even though Jughead remained unconscious, that was the first time since he had found him dead in the woods that F.P. had dared talk directly to him. Like Fred a few minutes before, he caressed the top of his head. He ran the back of his other hand under his own nose as he sniffled, trying his hardest to withhold tears now that everything seemed on its way to get back to normal. "I, uh... I told the nurse to let Betty and your sister know you're gonna be alright." He would have done so himself but he couldn't risk having his son wake up in that room alone while he was on the phone. "You're still in a hell of a lotta trouble, you know that? We'll talk about that later."

He pressed his hand to his hair. He wondered at what age had Jughead grown so much that his head would no longer fit in the palm of his hand. He wondered if he had even been there to see it. He wondered just how many regrets that he could have never made up for he would currently be carrying on his shoulders had his son never gasped back to life in the woods.


	3. Chapter 3

"Still sulking?"

His tone was teasing, it sounded almost as if he were enjoying himself. Jughead's lips twisted in irritation. He should have guessed that silent treatment wouldn't make any effect whatsoever on his father of all people, it never had. No matter what he did, how many decisions he made on his own, how hard he tried to be a decent leader to the younger Serpents, in F.P.'s eyes, he would always be nothing but a clueless _child_.

"Look, you don't have to talk to me, but you gotta eat something."

The man dropped the take out Pop's bag on the table by his bed and circled around it to take a seat on the armchair, which he had moved towards the back wall in respect for Jughead's grudge against him ever since he revealed what had become of the Serpents while he was unconscious.

"I figured you'd have enough of that... _mush_ they try to pass for food around here, whatever it is."

There was no response but F.P. hadn't been expecting one. In fact, he didn't even have to look at the teenager to guess he would be looking down at his own lap, stewing in his own bad mood.

"Why did you do it?"

His voice was a broken whisper. Almost like it had been a thought he had accidentally said out loud.

"Oh, so you're talking to me now?"

"Dad, for _once_ in your life, just—" He squeezed his lips shut, keeping himself from pouring out everything he had been holding back most of his life, deciding that was not the place nor the time. He inhaled a sharp, deep breath, proceeding with a much serene tone than before. "Just tell me why you did it."

"I—"

"And if you're sticking to that... wanting to avenge me made-up story, then just save it."

Their eyes met for the first time in days. In their eyes, they recognized each other's personalities staring back at them which made them all the angrier.

"How long have you been a Serpent, Jug?"

The young man huffed out a sigh of disbelief, looking away at once. F.P. pointed warningly in his direction.

"Don't you huff at me, boy, you look at me when I'm talking to you!"

Jughead felt his lips creasing with anger he was having a hard time repressing, feeling its repercussions pass onto his fractured ribs and how they ached from how heavy his breathing became. He could feel his father's glare glued to him even as he tried to keep his own looking elsewhere. It took him a few seconds until he caved, slowly and rather reluctantly turned his face towards him.

"I've been one since before you were born, I've been one since I was your damn age, so like it or not, kid, there's a couple of things I know that you don't. Like how being a leader is more than just bossing people around. Hell, it's even more than making the tough call every once in a while, you have to actually _lead_ your people. Every Serpent was ready to avenge you and Fangs, Jug, with or without my blessing. Now what kinda leader would I'd been if I'd let them face those Ghoulies on their own with their king cowering back at the Wyrm, huh? If I'd told them to stand down, if I'd told them this was a fight they couldn't win, their moral would have been on the ground and Penny and her new crazy ass Burning-Man-looking gang would have killed all the more of us. I did what I had to do, Jughead, you can't be mad at me for that."

Again, Jughead shook his head and gazed elsewhere and F.P. felt his throat tighten, because he recognized that frustration on his features and understood it better than anyone. Back when he was his son's age, before he had even become a Serpent, he had met a ton of promises to himself and only managed to keep a single one. Out of the thousand promises he had broken, this one he saw dissolving at that very moment might be the one that hurt the most so far. More than when he had slid that leather jacket on for the first time and perhaps even more than watching his son slide on the very same one years later.

"That's not what you're mad about."

The teenager stared at the 'no smoking' sign stuck to the opposite wall just so he had something to look at while stubbornly avoiding his father's gaze, the best punishment he could extend to him given his state. Nevertheless, if he had been forced to do it, he would have confessed that he was surprised the man was sensitive enough to perceive that by then his annoyance had outgrown Penny and the Ghoulies. With everything that was going on, with Hiram Lodge still at large and manipulating everyone in that town like string puppets, with the Southside lost to them forever and with the Black Hood's identity finally revealed —his girlfriend's father no less—, there was not enough room in his emotional range to mourn the loss of the Serpents just yet.

"That look on your face, that's the exact same one I had when I saw my old man talking to the Serpents."

The action could not have been more reluctant; first he merely glanced to the side to look at his father from the corner of his eye, then he barely turned his face in a way he tried to make subtle, but eventually he turned to look at him altogether. He couldn't help feeling curious. After all, that might have been the first time in his life he had ever heard F.P. talk about his own father.

"He was a great leader, way better than I am. And every time he stood up at the Wyrm and gave everyone the best pep talk they've ever heard in their lives, I thought to myself, I thought... ' _Why couldn't he be that same encouraging leader to his own flesh and blood instead of that abusive son of a bitch?_ '"

There was a long pause during which they both sat in what sounded a lot like a confession. If Jughead knew his father at all —and he was beginning to realize he might just know him better than he'd once thought— he knew it was safe to guess the number of people with whom F.P. had discussed that aspect of his past could have been counted with the fingers of one hand.

"I'm like my old man in more ways than one, Jughead, and that's on me. I promised I'd never have a son of my own feel about me the way I felt about him and I didn't deliver. But I know for a fact there's one thing that bastard and I don't have in common— Look at me, boy."

Jughead's eyes had lowered, partly in shame but mostly because he was struggling to hold back tears. He had lost count of the number of imaginary conversations he had had with his father in his head, conversations in which so many questions considered taboo in their family were finally answered, in which so many topics they'd always tip-toe around were finally addressed, in which they finally let out what they had been holding back all those years. He knew such conversations would never come to be. Maybe in movies and in books people could actually come to terms with their demons and flaws, make impossibly profound progress but in real life, very few people normally managed that, and even those that did would only do it after years of therapy and an insufferable amount of introspection.

This, however, felt significantly similar to one of those conversations. Maybe the closest they'd ever get to the ones he had imagined.

With the young man's gaze locked with his once again, F.P. went ahead to sentence the main difference between his father and himself, the one that helped him get back on his feet, even when life insisted on knocking him down.

"—I've loved my son from the second he drew his first breath. And I'm gonna love 'im until I draw my last, you hear me?"

Jughead nodded.

The moment was over, just like that. Both Jones men wiped away their tears with their back of their hand and resumed their artificial unfeeling facade.

"I'm heading back to the trailer," said F.P. all of a sudden as he got on his feet while Jughead's eyes lowered to his lap again. "I'll get you a change of clothes for tomorrow. And eat up, boy, you look even more bony than usual." He pointed to the Pop's take out he had left beside the boy a moment before and Jughead nodded obediently.

"Hey, dad?"

F.P. stopped at the doorway, turning his head towards him.

"—I love you, too."


	4. Chapter 4

"Dad?"

F.P. took that as a sign that Jughead was done getting dressed and walked back into the room.

"They're gonna bring in a coupl' more forms to sign and then that's that. You comin' home with me?"

"Uh... actually, Betty and I were thinking about maybe grabbing lunch at Pop's, if that's okay."

Even though his father nodded in approval, Jughead felt guilt stinging at his chest.

"You're welcome to join us, if you want..."

"No, that's alright. You kids haven't seen each other in a while, I understand."

There was an awkward silence during which they both internally wondered what could be taking so long with those damn forms. Then F.P. brought a hand up to the nearest wall, caressing it.

"I didn't notice before..."

Jughead burrowed his brow, wondering if his father was actually talking to him or just unconsciously thinking out loud.

"This used to be two separate bedrooms instead of just the one, there used to be a wall right there in the middle. Nursery was across the hallway, they must have moved it."

"What are you talking about?"

F.P. snapped out of his train of thoughts; he had in fact been thinking out loud. He shook his head, sliding his hand back into his pocket.

"I just remember I've been here before. Go wait outside, will you? I'll be right out."

"You brought my bike?"

"What are you, nuts? You can barely walk, boy, I borrowed Fred's truck."

He tossed the keys, which Jughead caught in the air, before nodding towards the exit so he would go wait in the car while he took care of those last few forms, taking one last look at the room with a melancholic half-smile curving his lips.

* * *

 _"Oh... uh... Don't you think the kid's gonna want to be with his mom right now?"_

 _From the second he had been born, the kid had not stopped crying, not even to catch his breath. It was oddly impressing how much capacity such brand new little lungs could have. F.P. glanced through the window towards the adjacent room. After such many hours of labor, Gladys was out like a light and she had earned herself the right for a good night sleep. The nurse insisted; the newborn shifting restlessly in their arms seemed to suggest that any other pair of arms would do the trick at that point._

 _He needed assistance; it was the first time he had learned how he was supposed to support his son's head and fasten his fragile, minuscule body to his chest in order to grant him some sense of security. The nurse left the room, leaving him with no further instructions to follow. He therefore improvised, pacing back and forth hoping the baby would find the movement soothing._

 _"What's the matter with you, boy? Huh?" he whispered to the wailing child, fearing he might actually be feeding off his nervousness and becoming all the more uncomfortable in his embrace. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, alright..."_

 _Even though his own body had been through no trauma to bring that kid to life, just witnessing the process had been exhausted, not to mention he had spent the last few hours listening to the baby's uninterrupted crying. He took a seat on a nearby chair and exhaled a long, tired sigh._

 _"Sorry for the name, kid, I promised your grandma. You understand, right?"_

 _Despite how many times Gladys and him had discussed the possibility of perhaps not adding a third Forsythe to the Jones family tree, deep down F.P. felt as though he would be insulting his mother's memory by not complying, having already failed to keep his promise to make something of himself by becoming the first one in the family to attend college. He knew passing on those expectations to his son would mean applying onto him pressure that could very well encourage him to become a Serpent out of spite, but he couldn't help wonder if in just a matter of years, that fragile baby boy would become the Jones that made a difference in their genealogy history._

 _"Yeah, she would have liked you."_

 _By then, the baby seemed to have exhausted himself, having either run out of tears to cry or breath to scream. F.P. wanted to believe his voice had a little something to do with it, that perhaps he would be as hopeless a father as he feared he would be ever since Gladys had announced she was pregnant. Back then, having a baby felt more like— a concept. He could imagine everything that being a father would entail, weigh the pros and the cons, something about it still felt surreal. Now that he had this actual human being in his arms, he realized he had been so concerned about the pregnancy, balancing doctor visits, calculating added expense and pulling his act together, that he had actually forgotten the **perpetuity** of having a kid. That baby was his for life; no matter what, regardless of how many times he screwed up, or how difficult their living situation became, that newfound sense of responsibility, that love so intense he had never anticipated he would feel upon watching his son take a breath for the first time, nothing could take that away from him. His son could resent him, put a million miles between them —as always, he braced himself for the worst—, but the second he needed his old man for anything at all, all he had to do was whistle and F.P. would come running... or at least, he was hoping he'd step up and deliver._

 _"You done now? Gotta hand it to you, boy, you've got resilience."_

 _The newborn remained reluctant to doze off but at least he had stopped crying. Slowly but surely, his sobbing dissipated and for a few moments —it must have been minutes that had felt like mere seconds and an eternity all at once—, father and son simply watched each other. The boy's eyes were far too alert for someone who was just a few hours old, or at least that's how they seemed from F.P.'s perspective._

 _"Sir?"_

 _He had no idea how long the nurse had been standing there, but they wouldn't be for much longer; after they had offered to put the baby back in his cradle for the night, the father soon refused, claiming he could handle it. He had no idea how he was going to manage to get that baby to actually get some sleep but he knew for a fact he wasn't ready to have him taken from his arms just yet._

 _"I'm gonna have my hands full with ya', huh?"_


End file.
